Monday midday 5th of May
An olive rests on a plate
Oval on a circle, casting green as shadow.
What is she worth in this life?
Does she need to strip her olive skin
expose her stone for hungry eyes
Get swallowed, stripped bare, spat out
with no care?
Is an olive worth a poem?
Does she need to play a part?
Sit beside a dry martini
Knowing her place, on edge,
for a drink, plat de resistance
A side show, side kick, for a James Bond—
aside in someone else’s story
Is this olive worth a poem?
Become symbol stretching back her roots to a branch.
phantom limb of peace in a palm?
Or hold chains, green pearl bonding roots and branches
In a necklace of trees pulling times before antiquity and a future not yet worn
Is this olive worth a poem?
Does she need to stand against occupation?
Zaytoun, drop of sun, sucked from rocks
Filled with sweat to fend off
dried empires
Is Olive worth a poem?
Isn’t she book already?
One that nature reads in 3D
Living words spelling tree C.A.G.T.
On pages doubly stranded
Awaiting to spin the tale of the sapling
raised by sun, soil and sweat
Is Olive more than a poem?
Isn’t she a knot of stories
At the seams of yours and my imagination
A thread to unravel stanzas and poems?
Can an olive
be
worthy
without
invoking,
alluding,
performing.
Are we olives?
Are we poems?
An olive rests on a plate
Oval on a circle, casting green as shadow.
What is she worth in this life?
Does she need to strip her olive skin
expose her stone for hungry eyes
Get swallowed, stripped bare, spat out
with no care?
Is an olive worth a poem?
Does she need to play a part?
Sit beside a dry martini
Knowing her place, on edge,
for a drink, plat de resistance
A side show, side kick, for a James Bond—
aside in someone else’s story
Is this olive worth a poem?
Become symbol stretching back her roots to a branch.
phantom limb of peace in a palm?
Or hold chains, green pearl bonding roots and branches
In a necklace of trees pulling times before antiquity and a future not yet worn
Is this olive worth a poem?
Does she need to stand against occupation?
Zaytoun, drop of sun, sucked from rocks
Filled with sweat to fend off
dried empires
Is Olive worth a poem?
Isn’t she book already?
One that nature reads in 3D
Living words spelling tree C.A.G.T.
On pages doubly stranded
Awaiting to spin the tale of the sapling
raised by sun, soil and sweat
Is Olive more than a poem?
Isn’t she a knot of stories
At the seams of yours and my imagination
A thread to unravel stanzas and poems?
Can an olive
be
worthy
without
invoking,
alluding,
performing.
Are we olives?
Are we poems?